Gravity
by Skylarcat
Summary: He could only describe it as gravity; that force that always drew them together.


**Title:** Gravity  
><strong>Author:<strong> Skylarcat  
><strong>Classification:<strong> One shot. Angie Flynn, Oscar Vega.  
><strong>Rating<strong>: A Damn Hot Mess  
><strong>Feedback:<strong> Writers live for reviews; always keep that in mind as you read in silence.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> **He could only describe it as gravity; that force that always drew them together.** Okay, so I have like ten stories just sitting on my laptop. Beginnings, middles, endings. Nothing complete. This was one of them, and I know I am at that point if I don't start wrapping these up, they will remain unfinished. It's important to note, I leave the ending not concrete, so it's opened to interpretation. I promise this will be my last sort of sad story.  
><strong>Note:<strong> Flynn and Vega are characters that do not belong to me. Yes, I have used them without permission. However, no copyright infringement is intended. And I will return them intact and a lot more satisfied.

**XXXXXX**

He could only describe it as gravity; that force that always drew them together. Even now, in the darkness of the precinct, he felt it. That unbreakable bond that connected them; five years of being partners had proven that. He knew her inside and out, which is why he realized right away what she was doing, sitting there, a glass of scotch in front of her. She was feeling sorry for herself, examining her latest decisions, feeling the betrayal she inflicted upon him. Of course, he had already forgiven her, but she wasn't so quick to do the same. He saw her wounded expression, felt her pain as if it were his own, so he did the only thing he could think to do; he poured himself a glass and sat across from her and waited. Oscar Vega was a patient man, or he was when it came to her.

She inhaled, leaning her head back against the cushion of her chair, and he watched her carefully, feeling the weight of her thoughts. He could tell she was in a dark place, her cheeks were tear-stained, and she appeared almost fragile. He knew the last hours had been difficult for her. Actually, the last few months had taken their toll on her, but that was the price of lying. He imagined that was part of the reason she had put down her gun during her standoff with Doug Slater, her way of surrendering to her past mistakes, trying to make right the wrong she felt she committed. Nothing terrified him more than when he rounded that corner to find that gun pointed in her face, there was no doubt in his mind, that if he hadn't shown up when he did and fired, she would have been shot. After it was all was said and done, it was the first time she ever expressed weakness, and the only thing he could do was hold her in his arms.

But now he felt eternity dissolve in one small moment; where she grew impossibly distant. Even from where he sat, he could feel her walls once more becoming intact. He felt the separation grow further with every breath that he took, and in that moment, he never wanted to breathe again.

He, of course, expected no less from her. She would push him away; believing that he deserved better than what she could give him. He could sense her fear; there were just some things she would never allow herself to have, and sadly he was one of those things. It was ridiculous, how damaged she was in that degree, to believe she didn't deserve to be happy, to think she would ruin him, that her love wouldn't be enough. And it bothered him that he may never be able to fix that, to change how she thought. She was more than enough; she was all that he wanted, all that he couldn't live without.

He swallowed, trying to contemplate how he could repair what was broken between them, and how he could make her understand that nothing was lost. That she was worth it, worth this, worth them. "How can we move forward?"

"I don't think I can," she answered woefully.

He heard every word, even the ones that she did not speak. She was transparent as glass, as the bottle of scotch that sat before her. She was surrendering, giving up, and her words were sharp and cut at him, leaving him bare and scarred.

She was being reckless with his feelings, crumping them up in the palm of her hand, as if merely a sheet of paper, discarding them as though not important. And no matter how imperfectly it may have been, he loved her in his own way. If she were to quit him now, he would be lost without her.

He listened, waiting for her to continue, to offer him some explanation, but she just sighed, indicating that she was finished, and he thought at how she was always like that; abrupt as a period at the end of a statement, always offering him crumbs, always giving him just pieces, always leaving him wanting more. This was them that they were talking about, not something he would just have to learn to survive; he didn't want to survive her. "Angie…"

"You deserve better than me, Vega." She interrupted, cutting him off, and he watched her cautiously. She looked so vividly intense and focused, melancholy, and his heart broke for her, for them.

He leaned forward slightly in his chair, placing his elbow on his desk. "Why do you do that," he asked.

She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes, her shoulders sloping downward. "Do what?"

He stared at her for a moment, searching her face. She grimaced at his silence, and shrunk further in her chair, closing like a tightly clenched fist. He leaned back and took a hesitant breath. "Why do you give yourself so much credit," he inquired. "Think that you will ruin me. Think I deserve better than you. Angie, there is no one better than you."

"Oscar, please don't…" she pleaded, her voice small and meek.

He could taste the bitterness in the back of his throat, the slow build of resentment. The scotch did little, but to intensify the situation. "Don't what," he asked. "Don't pretend like I don't know what's going on here? You want me to continue to talk in circles—where what is meant isn't said and what is said isn't meant. Why don't we just be honest for a change? You're scared. You're fucking scared, Angie. Well newsflash, I'm scared, too. I just don't give up on you when I'm scared."

She flinched at his words, feeling his anger. He sighed, lowering his voice. He felt completely defeated. "God-damn-it, Angie," he said softly. "You don't get to quit this, to quit us, to quit me." There was nothing left to say, so he stood, walked over to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. "Please." He couldn't bring himself to look at her, so he simply left, feeling broken in a million pieces.

Over the next few weeks, things had changed considerably. Mark and Angie finally came cleaned with their ten-year old lie and as punishment, Mark was asked to step down; both of them were given a three-month suspension without pay; a slap on the wrist, when considering it could have cost both of them their careers. No matter his opinion on Mark, or the situation, he knew Angie was a good detective, her job was her life; he thought perhaps the time off would help her clear her head, to help her reevaluate their last conversation, to make her realize the importance of their role to one another.

For the most part, work kept him busy. Cases kept his mind focused, but gradually his thoughts always came back to her, and he would send her the occasional text message or phone call. She would never answer or call him back, and he felt hurt by her rejection. At night he would think about her, and how over the last year things had changed between them. He picked up on the tension between her and Mark early on, but he had never been one to pry, so he waited for to open up, to allow him in. The first case, after they attended his father's wedding, was the first time he voiced his concern.

_"__I hate this car, how 'bout that truth for you?" He asked playfully, pressing a finger against the hood of her car._

_She laughed, shaking her head in response. "Thank you for your honesty."_

_"__I'm an open book," he said._

_He meant it more as a jibe, and she picked up on it. "So am I."_

_"__Yeah, well I used to think so."_

There was a time he used to believe her; to think she was an open book, and he had thought he knew all there was to know about his partner, only to discover he didn't truly know her at all. In response, she tried to show him that she hadn't changed, that she was still the same Angie that he came to know and respect, even offering him the file on her and Mark.

_She presented him a file and he looked at in in confusion. "Um, what's this?"_

_"__It's on me and Cross. Why don't cha read it?" She said, staring at him intensely._

_"__Okay, well, you know if I wanted to read it, I could have requested it myself." He trusted her; he didn't need to read the file._

_"__Yeah, well, I want you to know what happened. I want you to know that I am still an open book."_

Except she wasn't, and even the file she offered was a lie. It wasn't the truth. She wouldn't confess that until weeks later, over a round of bourbon. And even after that, he didn't give up on her; he loved her too much for that. It was what made her human. He thought they had grown closer after that, she would seek him out for advice, or his opinion on the matter, and he always stayed on middle ground, attempting to read her, to see where she stood, but to offer her quiet support. It wasn't until after the death of Samantha did the realization of her loyalties to Mark become clear, though he couldn't understand it. Perhaps, it was out of obligation, or maybe their shared past history, but she had once again put her career on the line for this man, and it angered him. He would always have her back, but not on this. And now she wasn't even speaking to him.

He respected that she needed time and space and he gave it to her, to the best of his ability. Eventually, work was no longer enough to preoccupy his mind, and the hurt became more intensified. Lucas resorted to taking him out for drinks weekly, but that only distracted him briefly, and on those nights, he returned home drunk, to only text her or call her in the early morning hours. He always regretted it the next day, knowing how foolish he had to look, but he was becoming desperate.

Work began to take its toll on him. He couldn't concentrate. More importantly, he didn't care. His work was suffering. So one day, he put in his request for personal leave, which was granted, considering everything he was going through. But no longer being at work, only left him with time on his hands, time to think about how he failed her.

Once he stopped by her house and she had opened the door, informing him that she needed more time to think. But all he was doing was thinking, and he was beginning to fall into a dark madness. He could barely eat anymore. Sleep was a lost cause. Mostly, he lounged around his house, his curtains drawn tightly. He wanted the world to stay on the outside. He stopped returning Lucas's phone calls after that.

He simply missed her, feeling incomplete without her. What was it that Stuart Fletcher had written in his suicide letter—that the road to hell was paved with good intentions? He only wanted her to be happy, even if it meant without him, even if it meant he was completely lost.

At first, the sleeping pills helped him sleep. And while he slept, he didn't feel pain, but after a while they lost their effect, so he began to take more, so he could sleep through the night. Until one night, he broke down, crying. He was just completely exhausted from pretending to be so strong, so he mixed the bottle of sleeping pills with a bottle of bourbon in attempts to forget her, not even realizing the consequences of his actions.

He was in and out of a haze when he heard the knock on his door, attempting to stand; he fell back to the floor and leaned against his couch, resting his head against the cushions. She allowed herself into his house when he didn't answer, stepping into the room and immediately realizing that something was wrong. She crouched by his side, cupping his face in her hands, and he could only look up at her. "Vega, did you take something?" She searched his face, and he blinked, trying to determine if she were really there or if he was imagining it.

He tried to focus on her, squinting his eyes, and pointed to the bottle that rolled a few yards away. She turned, picking it up and read the label; the horror at what he had done written across her face. "How many did you take? Did you take the whole bottle?" When he didn't answer, she knew she had her answer and immediately called for an ambulance.

He was borderline unconscious, fighting to stay awake. He had waited too long for her, and now that she was there, he didn't want to miss a moment. They had already wasted so many. "Angie," he sighed, offering her a faint smile. She ran her hands through his hair, down to the nape of his neck, her fingers gripping the sides of his face tightly in her hands. "You came back to me."

Her voice broke as she attempted to speak, nodding slightly at him. "I came back, Oscar. I'm right here." Her one hand came down to rest against his chest as she moved closer to him, lowering her face, so it rested just inches from his. "Now, it's your turn." She whispered into his ear. "I need you to stay. I need you to come back to me."

It was defiantly gravity, he decided; that always pulled them back to one another. He knew then that everything was going to be okay. He reached for hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. He was so tired, he just needed to sleep. But they had time, he could make this right. "I love you, Angie." He stated, the words slipping pass his lips, he felt the weight lift from his chest the moment he had spoken it.

She leaned forward, touching her forehead against his. She took a long breath, the tears falling down her cheeks. "I know you do. And I love you, too. I swear. I just…" She paused, stoking his face with her hands. "It just took me sometime to admit it."

She brushed her lips softly over his and he smiled against her mouth. "I knew you would eventually," he admitted, when she pulled away slightly. "I had faith in you." She caught her breath, in what he imagined was a mix between a sigh and a laugh. He stared at her, his eyes becoming impossibly heavy. "I just need to sleep now," he informed her.

Fear washed over her features. "Oscar, no…" She continued to speak, but her voice grew faint in his ears, the sound a distant mumble. He closed his eyes, feeling the peace come over him, accepting the gravity of the situation; in the end, they always found their way back to each other, and this would be no different. In life or death, they would be together, that's what gravity did; that undeniable force that bonded them forever.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"Set Me Free,  
>Leave Me Be.<br>I Don't Wanna Fall Another Moment Into Your Gravity"  
>-Sara Bareilles "Gravity"<p> 


End file.
